


there's not a word yet for old friends who've just met

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Temporary Amnesia, geralt coming to terms with having feelings, i tagged it as character death so people dont get freaked, jaskier chronically sleeps with the wrong people, magic doing weird shit, minorly!, out by the beginning but i pinkie promise its not, they think its reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: “I wonder,” says Dandelion, lounging under a tree- his lute is in his lap. Geralt is cleaning his sword and stealing glances at him every few moments. “I wonder why it is some people feel so familiar. I could swear I’d never met you, Geralt, but you’re- maybe it’s just from those old songs.”He strums a chord, and when he starts on Toss a Coin Geralt grits out a “stop it” before he can even think.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 216
Kudos: 2219
Collections: oh YES





	there's not a word yet for old friends who've just met

**Author's Note:**

> yes all my titles are from the muppet movie. it has an appropriate level of tenderness

Jaskier is human. Jaskier is fragile. 

Jaskier dies. 

It’s a quiet affair- Geralt isn’t even there when it happens. He’d been taking care of business in the North, and Jaskier had been wandering in the South, and he’d heard a month later that the little bard who wrote all those songs about him had been stabbed. 

Sometimes. Sometimes the story is that Jaskier was finally caught up to by an enraged husband. Sometimes the story is that he drank himself to death, even though Jaskier doesn’t- didn’t. Jaskier  _ didn’t _ generally drink enough for anything but boneless comfort. 

Hearsay. Geralt doesn’t believe it, and so he goes looking. It is several months of nothing- it is being shown an unmarked grave- before he finally gives up. 

Jaskier is human, fragile, and dead. He’d be proud of the uncertainty surrounding his death, Geralt thinks- ten, twenty years later they still are singing his songs. 

His friend. Geralt has not lost a lot of friends, because he never had many friends to lose, but when he did it was with more than a clap on the shoulder in parting. Life’s unfair, and he knows that, but every time he hears Toss A Coin it makes his jaw clench. Life’s unfair, Jaskier’s dead. 

He continues. There’s nothing else to do. Money for monsters, year after year after fucking year. 

He does not look it, but he is so tired. 

-

He is in a tavern, the remnants of a bowl of soup sitting in front of him, and there is a bard playing the Fishmonger’s Daughter. He is a loud thing, stirring up the crowd easily, and his tenor is familiar enough that it pulls at Geralt’s chest despite the bawdy song. 

He has seen a lot of strange things in his life- when he looks up and sees Jaskier, dancing over tabletops with his lute held easily in his hands, though. 

“Play us another, Dandelion!” shouts a man, raising his drink in a toast, and Jaskier-not-Jaskier grins and complies. 

Jaskier, twenty years dead, looking exactly the same. Dressed differently, of course, in modern clothing, but it’s the same fussy silk. His hair is a bit longer, curling around his cheekbones. He is pink-cheeked and happy and alive. Geralt doesn’t understand. 

He’s been staring, and he only realizes it when Jaskier-not-Jaskier jumps off his table and approaches him. 

“Hello, stranger,” he says, cheerfully, and Geralt’s heart stops for a second- it stutters in his chest, and it’s never done anything like that before, but. There’s no recognition in his eyes. “Name’s Dandelion, I  _ am _ a fantastic singer, thank you for that look on your face- do you know you’ve been staring at me for half an hour? Not that I mind, of course, you’re not awful on the eyes, but I’m told that’s generally considered rude.” 

“Dandelion?” is all Geralt can think to ask- his mind is curiously blank. He has seen a lot of strange things in his life, and he thinks this might be the strangest. 

Jaskier- Dandelion- puffs up, looking a little offended. “Uh,  _ yes _ , I’m- hold on, are you a  _ Witcher _ ?” 

A long pause. Geralt blinks once, twice, three times, but the bard stays squarely in front of him. “Yes,” he tries, slowly. He doesn’t understand. It’s Jaskier- it isn’t Jaskier. Jaskier died twenty years ago and Geralt never said goodbye. 

“Oh, well that’s  _ brilliant _ ,” Dandelion says, plopping down on the bench right across from him. “Do you mind if I pick your brain a moment? I’ve no experience with monsters, aside from the human sort, and I’ve heard it’s sort of your thing. You-” he waves a hand. There are several rings on his fingers, sparkling. “You don’t look like the talking sort, if I can be honest, but-” 

Geralt’s mouth opens with the urge to say “shut up, Jaskier,” and he has to close it again. He closes his eyes as well, and when he opens them again Dandelion’s staring at him with an odd expression. It’s masking concern- he can tell, because he knows him. Except he doesn’t, because this is Dandelion, and Jaskier’s been dead twenty years. 

His head hurts. The bard is still chattering. He stands abruptly, sending the bench screeching back across the floor, and Jaskier stands too, and he smells the exact fucking same. He smells the same and he doesn’t know Geralt and he’s been dead twenty godsdamned  _ years _ . 

Geralt goes- out the door, out to his horse. Not Roach but he still calls her Roach, because Geralt is not creative. 

And Dandelion follows. 

-

Jaskier- Dandelion. Dandelion always follows. Geralt leaves and the bard trots after him, his complaining familiar as anything. 

“If you won’t tell me anything about monsters I guess I’ll just have to see them myself,” he says, sounding smug. Geralt grunts. Can a Witcher go mad? 

Dandelion feels real. When Geralt brushes past him, when he gets himself too close to danger just like Jaskier did and he has to haul him back by the collar of his fancy shirt. 

He sounds real. He talks about things, sings about things Geralt would never think of. 

He looks real, sunlight making his hair honey-gold. 

Geralt cannot make himself tell Dandelion to leave. Every time he tries, the words get stuck in his throat. He is very quiet- “surly,” says Dandelion, prodding at him.

A ghost. Somehow living, somehow human. Geralt doesn’t understand, and the bard doesn’t remember. 

“I wonder,” says Dandelion, lounging under a tree- his lute is in his lap. Geralt is cleaning his sword and stealing glances at him every few moments. “I wonder why it is some people feel so familiar. I could swear I’d never met you, Geralt, but you’re- maybe it’s just from those old songs.” 

He strums a chord, and when he starts on Toss a Coin Geralt grits out a “stop it” before he can even think. 

-

Not exactly the same. He’s scared of the dark, although he never says anything, always sitting right up next to the fire. It makes his eyes flicker strange and flat. His sleep is interrupted by whimpering. Sometimes- often- his chattering seems almost frantic. 

-

He stumbles too close to the water’s edge while Geralt is dealing with a drowner and without thinking Geralt growls out “Jaskier,  _ stop _ .” And Dandelion does- he jumps back like he’s been burned, and when Geralt turns to check on him he’s staring at him with eyes that seem far bigger than usual. 

After- when Geralt is dripping with lake water and drowner guts, when he’s got the corpse tossed over his saddle- after. Dandelion looks at him, and there is something in his eyes. Something older, something strange, something distant. “What did you call me?” 

“Nothing,” Geralt snaps. 

“You called me Jaskier,” he says, and the word from his mouth is enough to make Geralt’s stomach clench. 

(Gods. He’s seen people die before, but Jaskier is different, and Geralt never got to say goodbye.) 

-

“Dandelion isn’t my real name,” Dandelion says, suddenly. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the stars. Geralt looks up. 

“I don’t actually know my real name. I sort of- I just woke up, and that was the first thing I thought of.”

Geralt’s mouth feels dry, and he swallows. “What do you mean, you just woke up?” 

Dandelion lets out a laugh. It doesn’t have his regular humor. “What do you think I mean? I woke up. I had a lute, so I learned how to play it. And when I saw you in the tavern, I thought-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. He has seen a lot of strange things but this is the strangest. “You-” He pauses, clears his throat. “I knew a man named Jaskier. But he died.” 

Dandelion considers him thoughtfully for a long moment. 

“Are you sure?”

-

He never saw his body. He saw an unmarked grave, heard a story. 

He goes to find Yennefer. 

-

When Dandelion sees the witch, he makes a noise in the back of his throat like a stuck cat and Geralt almost laughs. Yennefer does not. 

“What the hell have you done, Witcher?” 

“I found him,” Geralt says, every one of his senses tuned onto the bard standing half behind him. “...He found me. He says his name is Dandelion.” 

Now Yennefer does laugh- short, incredulous. “And you’re saying you did nothing?” 

“Yes,” he snaps, defensive. 

“And when was this?” 

He hesitates a long moment. “Five months ago,” he admits, almost guiltily. When he turns to look, Dandelion still has his bright blue eyes narrowed on her. “Yen, I think it’s really him.” 

Yennefer throws her hands up in the air, looking exasperated. “Do you remember anything?” 

“I remember that I don’t trust you,” Dandelion says immediately. She makes a face, and Geralt rolls his eyes without thinking, and everything is so fucking familiar. 

And then she knocks him out with a wave of her fingers. 

“Fucking- Yennefer,” he snaps- he’d whirled to catch the bard before he could hit the ground, but still. 

“Just bring him over to the bed,” she says, looking typically irritated. “When did he die?” 

“Twenty years ago,” Geralt says, reluctantly- Jaskier looks small in his arms. Human, fragile. Dead and alive again. He lays him out on the lush sheets, very gently. 

“Did you ever see the body?”    
  
“No.” 

Unmarked grave. Geralt had grieved. He had  _ grieved _ . 

“I don’t think he died,” she says, laying a hand across Jaskier’s pale brow. “He feels… strange. I- give me a moment, let me-” She closes her eyes, and there is quiet in the room. 

(Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer. Geralt is not a sentimental man but this sends something fizzing in his chest.)

Quiet in the room. Heartbeats, three of them. Yennefer makes a noise, low and almost wounded in her throat, and when she opens her eyes they’re practically glowing. 

“Yen?” 

“It’s him,” she says, and then  _ she _ passes out. 

Fucking wonderful. 

-

Jaskier wakes up screaming. Yennefer doesn’t, and Geralt thanks the fucking gods for that because he may have a Witcher’s constitution but he’s been learning, recently, that that doesn’t mean much. 

“Son of a fucking  _ bitch _ , Geralt,” he says, immedaitely after scaring the  _ fucking daylights _ out of him- he launches himself bodily into his lap. 

“Dandelion?” Geralt asks, cautiously. Jaskier makes a wet noise that resembles a snort and hits him on the arm. 

“Shut up, I’m trying to process a whole fucking lifetime plus some- did you know I made Toss A Coin? For you! I suppose you did know that, but my point is I didn’t, and- and oh gods, what am I wearing? Why am I not old? Why the fuck is she here? No, don’t tell me, I fucking remember, I- oh, gods, I remember  _ everything _ .”

For his part, Geralt can’t do much but put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and just cling on tightly. 

-

“I didn’t die,” Jaskier says thoughtfully, some time later. He has been sitting pressed right up next to Geralt, and Geralt can’t bring himself to push him away. 

Yennefer scoffs, something hollow about it, but Geralt hums low in his throat. “What happened?” 

The odd flatness in his eyes. Familiar, reluctantly, because Dandelion had become familiar, but- this is Jaskier. Jaskier died.

He’d gone to an unmarked grave. Mourned. “I was alive,” he says, voice low. “I was alive.” 

“In the dark,” Yennefer agrees, sounding almost sympathetic. “Not awake, really, but alive.” 

It’s cold in the room, despite the fire burning in the hearth. Quiet but for three heartbeats. Geralt closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to know, but he needs to. “For twenty years?” 

Jaskier lets out a noise that’s half a laugh. “Only twenty?” 

Yennefer nods. She looks thoughtful, perched in a plush armchair like a throne. “I don’t know how he still looks the same- I don’t know how he didn’t die.”

“I did,” Jaskier says, confidently. Geralt looks at him, and he shrugs. “I did. I died in there.” 

“No,” Yennefer says, almost sympathetic. “You didn’t.” 

-

A question solved- fifty more left behind. Who did it? Why? Geralt feels anger burning hot in his belly, and there is nothing to kill. No monster he can find, nothing to fight, just Jaskier at his side with his flat eyes. Jaskier, who didn’t die twenty years ago. 

“Can you find who did this?” he asks, and Yennefer tilts her head. 

“I can try.” 

-

Not exactly the same. Jaskier is afraid of the dark, though he’d never admit it. There is a look in his eyes, haunted, like Geralt has seen on so many men before. 

Human, fragile. “I never did properly say goodbye,” Geralt admits, voice rough with things unsaid. Jaskier gives him a smile. 

And yet- Jaskier is Jaskier. He has iron in his bones. He talks, plays, eats. He has been through hell and come out singing. 

-

He tracks down the man who did this. Hunts him, singleminded as a wolf after prey. A spurned lover, of all fucking things- Jaskier squints at him, and then says “holy shit, seriously?” 

People with power are so often cruel. Geralt, with his sword and his anger and his hate, has the power. 

Twenty fucking years. 

He puts his sword through the man’s heart. 

-

“What was it like?” Geralt asks- he doesn’t want to know, but he wants to know. He is cleaning his sword, and Jaskier is sat across from him, lute in his hands. 

“Lonely,” he answers, eventually. 

Frozen in the ground for twenty years. Lonely indeed. 

“I wasn’t really- you know. I wasn’t really awake. And then when I woke up, I just-” he makes a poofing motion with his hands, strums at his lute. All nervous energy. 

Jaskier has iron in his bones. Geralt closes his eyes, follows his lead.

“I’m glad,” he says, haltingly, “you’re alive. I’m very-”

His bard laughs, bright and familiar, and takes his hand as casually as anything. “Gods, Geralt. I know talking about your  _ feelings _ isn’t really your thing, but-” 

“Shut up,” Geralt says, gruffly. Jaskier laughs again. 

“I wasn’t really awake, but I dreamed a lot. Sometimes nightmares, but mostly it was just- going on your silly adventures.” 

“Not silly,” Geralt protests automatically- his hand clutches automatically at Jaskier’s. Lute callouses over delicate bones. 

“I love you,” blurts Jaskier. His cheeks are pink with the admission and they are still holding hands and Geralt would feel embarrassed, ashamed, if- 

Well. Jaskier had been dead twenty years, and now he is alive. Human, fragile, iron core. 

Geralt ducks his head, carefully, and kisses him. 

-

He has seen a lot of strange things in his life- Jaskier is bright eyes, sleepy in the morning, chattering and fucking irritating and often exhausting, honey hair and songs murmured in his ear. 

Jaskier is perfectly natural. 

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by the the-interuniversal-geometer on tumblr again!! "About 100 years after Jaskier dies Geralt meets the mysterious bard Dandelion. The bard seems very similar to his old friend and he agrees to let this new bard tag along even tho he misses his old friend. The similarities don’t end there though and Geralt is left wondering about who this bard truly is. (It’s Jaskier, alive after all this time. Im not sure how, but have fun!)" i did NOT follow this exactly at all and for that i apologize this was just the first thing my mind went to and i couldnt shake it 
> 
> i wrote this last night at like four am and then i fell asleep in my morning class i hope u like it!!!!! if u did Pls send me an ask or a prompt over at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com
> 
> ALSO if u liked this Please Leave A Comment i survive on them. they are the mitochondria in the cell of my life. that didnt make sense because im an art major and all i know about mitochondria is that theyre powerhouses please dont let this dissuade u from leaving a comment im sorry i love you 
> 
> (also also if u've sent me a prompt i love you SO MUCH and i will get to it and youre all so fucking brilliant i am going down my list and i love you)


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